


lovely, bitter water

by vintaged



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), M/M, Slow Burn, arthur and merlin finally Deal With Their Shit, arthur deals with the modern world but mostly just his feelings, but happy ending fear not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vintaged/pseuds/vintaged
Summary: Of all the modern appliances you show him, Arthur loves the coffeemaker best.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 71





	lovely, bitter water

Of all the modern appliances you show him, Arthur loves the coffeemaker best.

It’s not fancy; by any stretch of imagination it’s barely a keurig. But it delights Arthur, in a way only a wager on an unbroken horse could. Wide-eyed, he watches you set up the decanter, pour the dollar store grounds in (because you’re going to save the environment by avoiding single use plastics, and honey, and god knows what else at this point). When the water begins to boil, bubbling in the reservoir, he shakes his head in awe.

“That’s bloody _incredible,_ ” he says, every time. He’s glued to the little machine to the very end, whoops when dark coffee pours out with a soft buzz.

“Did you use magic to do that?” Arthur asks, and you’re pleasantly surprised to see that finally, you know more than him. “You must have used magic, go on.”

“No,” you say, and grin. Your smiles are wider, now -you can feel them cut into your cheeks and make your jaw ache. “But it’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

“It must be magic,” Arthur says stubbornly, and wanders back to the television.

•

For the first few weeks, Arthur sleeps on the couch. You offer him your bed, of course, but he _loves_ that the couch can fold out, and devotes a fair amount of time to expanding and retracting the flimsy mattress until it’s a miracle the thing hasn’t snapped in half. He’s adjusting to modern life… aggravatingly well.

The first night is the hardest, naturally. Arthur is shell-shocked and confused, soaked to the bone and glowing faintly if you squint. Clutching at you in the lake, you could swear he was a child again, but by the time you reach your flat he’s walking with purpose and determination -despite the muddy attire. His steps take on more and more gravitas the farther you get from the lake, like his whole body is _remembering_. It’s unfair how little help Arthur needs, but then again wet chainmail is so _unbelievably_ heavy, so it’s something of a relief too.

Every word the comes to the front of your mouth seems wrong. Like any conversation will go in the wrong direction, no matter how carefully you plan it. You were planning on being angry with him; you had a whole rant ready, hundreds of years in the making and at least a decade in revisions. But now that he’s here in front of you, you can’t speak for the dryness of your tongue. You start to say his name and everything wells up inside you, like a storm come alive, and you’re going to _burst_ with the weight of it. And worst of all -there’s a hesitation that hangs between the two of you now, heavy with time and distance and _is he still your Arthur, after all?_

The thought is deeply disturbing, so you pack it away for now. Your hands don’t shake when you undress him, only when you dig through the laundry bin and squeeze the life out of every cotton shirt till you find one that will fit. Arthur takes the sweatpants and t-shirt from you carefully, already fascinated with the stretchy material; and of course everything is too tight on him, but that’s a problem for another day.

 _Another day_. The thought sparks something in you but it’s been so long you can’t tell _what_ , exactly. All you know, right now, is that you can’t look at him without tearing up, and he doesn’t seem to know how to speak, just yet, and so you fumble with the gauze and neosporin instead of holding him close. It’s just… easier.

(And both of you always choose the easy way out when it comes to words, don’t you?)

He refuses your bed with a raised hand, all chivalrous dignity, and grins widely when you unfold the couch -and if that isn’t the mostArthur thing you’ve seen in years. He doesn’t help with the sheets (although he _certainly_ knows how to do that); but by the time you’ve returned from the bathroom, carting a dusty but probably-still-clean comforter, he’s sprawled out on the flimsy mattress, snoring lightly.

For some reason, looking at him is impossible. You set the unfinished bowl of soup on the side table, hit the light switch, and stagger back to your bedroom. It’s barely sundown, but you crawl into bed too, not bothering to remove your clothing or shoes because what does that matter right now, anyways? Maybe you’re in shock.

(You’re definitely in shock.)

You wake with a start in the early hours of the morning, curled up against the door, reaching towards Arthur like the day he became king. Your cheek is stuck to the wood. There is a crick in your neck, and your tailbone is numb.

•

He marvels at the camera. When you bring home a disposable kodak from the pharmacy, along with a collection of pens, candies, and blue gatorade (Arthur’s obsessed, for some reason), it only takes a moment before he’s peeling at the yellow paper round the lens.

“What is _this_?” He demands. You open your mouth to explain, then freeze mid-inhale. Any basic description requires an understanding of the last fifteen hundred years, and Arthur was rather _conveniently_ asleep for that bit. 

“They’re like little paintings,” you try, and Arthur snorts.

“They _are_!” So you’re off to an excellent start, then.“You know how we see things with… with our eyes?”  
  
“Yes, Merlin, I’m aware of how _vision_ works.”

“Alright well, imagine you could capture what your eyes see, and… hold it in your hands, I suppose.”

The look Arthur gives you is so utterly, egregiously disbelieving, you almost give up right then and there. It takes everything you’ve got to just take a deep breath, take the camera from his hands, and try again.

“Just… just look through the little window in the top, and hit this button. When the number says 9-“ you point to the ticker tape, already several photographs closer to the end of the roll thanks to Arthur’s fiddling- “give it to me, and I’ll show you what to do.”

Arthur huffs condescendingly and snatches the camera back.

“Of course you will,” he says, and promptly snaps a picture of what you just _know_ is going to be the worst image of you ever invented.

It’s not a surprise that he only officiallybelieves you after the film is developed. And after that, it’s only a matter of time before he’s taking harried pictures of everything that moves and pretending he’s got an “eye” for photography, or whatever blustery nonsense he’s leaning on in place of a crown.

And you should be more annoyed, because it’s unfair that he’s still _this_ infuriating, and fifteen hundred years reallyshould have mellowed him out. 

But you haven’t heard his voice in so long it doesn’t quite matter as much, now.

•

He sees two men holding hands a few weeks after what you’re labeling “The Return” and he’s labeling “It Really Wasn’t As Dramatic As All That, Merlin.” In a bookshop, because you’re finally going to make him read Terry Pratchett, dammit, and he’s starting at the beginning like the rest of us. 

London isn’t quite as hellish as it used to be, you’re telling him, now they’ve got roads and pavement and a whole mess of political issues that kings could only _dream_ of. Arthur isn’t listening, and that’s all right, you suppose, until he’s gripped your shoulder tightly, is hissing into your ear.

“Merlin, do you _see_ that?”

You glance up and over your shoulder. At the counter, the cashier is bagging up several paperbacks, smiling and chatting with the couple across from her.

“We already went over credit cards,” you say tiredly, and turn back to the book at hand. They’ve got _The Color of Magic_ , they _must_ , it’s not the best of Pratchett’s work but it’s the official beginning-

“Not that!” Arthur spits out. His grasp tightens, enough to sting, and you shake his hand off. Not that Arthur cares. He leans in close and says, teeth gritted, “ _Them_.”

You cast another glance at the counter. 

“What, the cashier?”

Arthur’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head.

“No! Those two-the men by the counter-”

You tilt your head back in exasperation, watching the couple push through the double doors and out into the busy streets, and it hits you.

“ _Oh.”_ You say softly.

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Arthur says tightly. “You didn’t tell me that now, that men can… you know...”

“They have for a long time,” you remind him, because it’s true, but Arthur _really_ has to make it all about him doesn’t he?

“Well yes, but… not so _freely_ !”

  
You can’t stop the frown that crinkles your brow. Arthur may be behind on modern society, but you hadn’t thought he’d be like this. You’re struck with the sudden urge to whack him upside the head, say _quit staring, you clotpole, there’s nothing wrong with love, just like there’s nothing wrong with magic. Grow up!_

“It’s safer, now,” you say instead, “Not as safe as it should be, but overall, here you can love who you want openly now. There’s no need to be upset.” You do your best to keep the explanation light, because now really isn’t the time to discuss the intricacies of modern love and besides, the cashier is eyeing you two with disdain -but Arthur doesn’t miss the clip in your voice. He coughs, flustered, and a flush rises in his cheeks as he sets his jaw.

“I’m not _upset_ ,” he manages after a tense moment. “I just didn’t know it was alright, now.”

What a strange day this is turning out to be. Twenty minutes ago he was on his seventh latte, and now you’re discussing, well… _this._ It’s enough to make your skin prick. How do you even _begin_ this conversation?

“Well, it’s a little more complex than that,” you start, turning your gaze back to the bookshelf at hand; but now Arthur’s so red in the face, so frazzled, it’s a wonder he hasn’t exploded. “What is going on with you?”

“Nothing!” Arthur says, too loudly. “What’s going on with _you_?”

“Nothing!”

You throw your hands up at him and stomp away from the bookshelf, down into another aisle. Arthur doesn’t follow, luckily, because if he did you really would have thumped him; you’re on equal ground, now, or at least more equal than before, and if Arthur deserves a knock round the head for being so utterly _dense_ , you’re happy to oblige. 

But he is quiet for the rest of the outing, and doesn’t mention it again. His face stays red for a long time, however.

•

“I want to hold a service for Gwen,” Arthur says over breakfast.

You glance up from your phone. He’s got a look halfway between sadness and anger on his face, the spoon gripped tight in his hands.

“And the knights,” Arthur continues. “It’s the least… the least I can do.”

You nod. It’s a perfectly sensible request; you’ve had centuries to mourn Camelot, but for Arthur, the pain must be just as fresh and raw as the day you lost him. A rush of guilt washes over you for not realizing this sooner, but you put your phone down and make sure to hold his gaze. You’ll take care of this, just as you always have.

“I could take you to their graves,” you say steadily. “It’s safe, and secret. When do you want to go?” 

Arthur sets the spoon down and stares at you. He cocks his head in surprise, lips slightly parted. He seems genuinely confused, and somewhat touched, by how quickly you’ve responded, how ready you are for his every request even after all this time.

“I knew you wouldn’t let them be forgotten,” he says after a moment. And you _really_ can’t look at him now.

“We can go tomorrow,” You say, jumping to your feet and gathering the cereal bowls in lieu of letting him _look_ at you like that, the way you almost forgot, the way that never made any sense. “I’ll check the bus schedule.”

The next morning you go to wake Arthur early (because now the world runs around the clock, and the king of Camelot will too), except he's already dressed and perched carefully on the couch arm, waiting for you. He’s somber and quiet as you bustle around the flat, locking the doors and windows, and he follows you out to the street with the air of a man going into battle.

(Maybe he is, in a way.)

By sunrise you’re just outside of Cross Hands, shivering in the wind, eyes squeezed shut against the cold. If Arthur is unimpressed with the scenery, he doesn’t say so; just follows you off the road to the west; across the fields, like the old days. He doesn’t ask questions, and that’s really for the best because your heart is so high in your throat, so you couldn’t answer him even if you wanted to.

(Funny, how he still makes you shiver like that.)

When you reach a copse of trees everyone _sees,_ but can’t seem to recall once pressed, you finally glance back -only to see a familiar quirk at Arthur’s lips, the one he gets whenever he’s impressed with you.

“Not bad,” He says softly, and you can’t help but grin, just a bit, before stepping forward into the trees. 

A few years back -maybe it was yesterday, or maybe it was a thousand years ago- you built this place and blocked it off from the world, convinced it was a part of your destiny. In hindsight everything you’ve done has been for Arthur, but at the time it felt so much like something that was an extension of yourself, part of the endless waiting game. It feels strange to finally _share_ it, with the only other person who could possibly understand. You shake your head and push some brush out of the way; clearly you’ve been alone too long, if you’re already going down _that_ road so early in the morning.

Arthur inhales sharply when you reach the clearing; and you suppose it _is_ rather impressive, after all. A perfect circle, done with magic, perpetual dappled lighting and warm air. Everywhere is the soft hum of magic, not that Arthur can hear it. The graves are assembled at the edges of the clearing, a ring within a ring. There are no labels, no birth-death dates, anymore; it’s been a long time since there were any bodies to speak of, and perhaps it’s better this way. You know whose grave is whose, solely from the plants. No one needs much more than that.

Gwen’s grave is closest to you. Her cairn is surrounded by flowers, white hydrangea and lavender, spilling over the pile of stones that mark her burial. Beside her rest Elyan, Leon, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival, each mark flooded with a different kind of herb and headed by a glyph of healing. At the far end of the clearing is Gaius’ grave, where a bed of rosemary and blush poppies encircling the stack of stones. You can’t help but head there first, because you always do, and because you know Arthur will follow.

And he does, eventually. You kneel in front of Gaius’ cairn, and hear him do the same before Gwen’s. Neither of you say anything, for a long time.

(What else is there to say?)

Eventually the grass at the far end of the clearing crackles as Arthur rises; he comes to stand behind you, just a breadth from your shoulder, as you finish dusting off Gaius’ glyph. You brace your arms on your knees and rise to join him.

And maybe it’s the rush of blood to your head, or the realization that someone else is _here_ with you, but at second glance the graves suddenly look utterly….inadequate. They’re too small and haphazard for the royalty they represent, just piles of stones and unkempt plants; nothing special, nothing new. You’re suddenly overcome with shame, with the urge to wipe everything away, to start over. Do it _better_ , this time, for them. For Arthur.

“They’re beautiful,” Arthur says, as if he’s read your mind. “Thank you.”

He squeezes your shoulder once, then steps away. Time to go.

But when the two of you reach the edge of the clearing, Arthur stops. He turns back, surveying this makeshift graveyard with wet eyes. He seems on the verge of asking a question, but stops before a sound can leave his mouth.

 _We’ll come back_ , you want to say. Fill the silence with a promise, and another and another: _We’ll come back and see them. I swear it._ But the words stick in your throat.

“Goodbye,” Arthur says quietly, after a long moment. And he leans against you, gently, like you’re all he’s got left. 

(You are, in a way.)

And there’s that heat in your chest that you never thought you’d feel again; bright and burning. Like this is what you’re meant to do, where you’re meant to be.

•

Somewhere along the line you fall into bed together, because it really was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?

Later, you will blame it on alcohol, though neither of you were tipsy in the slightest; but then again, you’ve always been the kind of men to look for excuses to touch each other.

(It’s wonderful.)

The next day you can’t look him in the eye. And Arthur, for all his heady words, suddenly has nothing to say; he avoids you as much as is possible in this tiny flat, eventually curling up on the couch with a loud huff and pretending to read, although whenever you pass by he’s still stuck at page 72.

(He’s so soft against you, like a dream. Your mouths match perfectly and you could cry, you’ve waited for so long; all these years you have given and given and _finally_ Arthur wants the same, returns it all to you tenfold. His mouth wet, teeth sharp at your lips, your throat, pulling at you like he’s afraid you’ll disintegrate under his hands. Fingers at the jut of your spine.)

“Take-away?” You ask around midday, and Arthur grunts. You make sure to roll your eyes, but he’s very determinedly _not_ looking at you, completely ruining the whole effect.

“Alright then,” you say loudly. “Tikka masala and tandoori chicken with extra rice for his _majesty_.”

Arthur just grunts again, his brow furrowed: but when you shuffle to the door and dig around in your coat for your wallet, you can feel his eyes on the back of your neck. Bright and blue and determined as all hell.

“Don’t worry about _me_ , my lord. I’ll survive the bitter cold and be sure to bring your meal with the _greatest_ haste,” you hear yourself say, and your voice sounds thick, like you’re underwater. Arthur doesn’t look up, but as you close the door you can hear him getting up from the couch. There’s a small flush of comfort in knowing he’ll have the forks and plates set out when you return.

(He whispers your name, and everything in you sparks.)

•

When you find out Arthur isn’t sleeping either, it’s the kind of surprise that _should_ hurt more than it does. But all you feel is a slight twinge, an _oh, that certainly isn’t good_ , _we should probably see to that,_ and then you pack the thought up to deal with later.

Arthur doesn’t let you forget, of course. He sweeps into the front room later that evening, although the grandeur is somewhat spoiled by the fact that you have carpeted floors, not stone, and so you never actually hear him coming.

“I need drugs,” he announces loudly.

“No you don’t,” You say. You’re on your knees digging under the couch for a chapstick (your _last_ chapstick), but all your fingers skirt over are old candy wrappers and a small paper bag filled with… something. Arthur doesn’t have many belongings, yet, so this must be yours. Probably. Either way, it’s your flat, so it’s yours now.

“I _do_. I saw them on the telly-vision. They’re supposed to help you sleep.”

You crawl to your knees, the packet in your hand. It’s a battered envelope, stuffed so full of paper it’s doubled in size. Interesting.

“Really?” You say, probably too late. Arthur doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Everything in this place rattles and sighs and beeps, in case you hadn’t noticed,” he snaps, leaning over the couch to glare at you. “ _You_ may be able to sleep, what with that thick skull of yours, but I can’t!”

You’re tempted, for a moment, to smack him round the head with the envelope. Arthur has never been a joy during Camelot winters, and you didn’t expect several centuries of rest to have taken care of that. But now that you’re trapped in this tiny one-bedroom, waiting out what you’ve explained several times is a _blizzard_ , and a modern one at that, you’re beginning to question if his return was _quite_ so necessary after all. It occurs to you that Arthur’s barely been back six months, and already you want to strangle him.

“I’ve got some benadryl in the bathroom,” you say, only half-listening as you fiddle with the envelope flap. It’s taped shut for some reason. “You’re such a baby, that should do the trick. White bottle with a pink lid.”

“Right,” Arthur says loftily. “Considering you’ve had so much time to perfect the recipe, this must work as well as Gaius' lavender remedies. Better, even.” He hauls himself backwards off the couch, pads back down the hall into the bathroom.

“Only take _one_ ,” You yell after him, but Arthur is long gone; you can hear him slamming around the bathroom, probably spilling toothpaste and painkillers everywhere in his haste. He’ll find it, eventually. Already you don’t have the heart to tell him how long the little pill will take to kick in.

It doesn’t matter; you have your prize. Arthur can go be princely on his own somewhere, if he’s going to be like this. You thumb the dry tape apart, crack open the envelope, and a mess of pharmacy photographs tumble onto your lap.

(So _that’s_ where he’s been keeping them.)

Curious, you card through the scattered images. The photographs are haphazard at best; at least twelve are just blurred thumbprints, or four indistinguishable pictures of a leaf on the pavement. There are a few of the neighbor’s greyhound, and several dedicated just to the laundromat.

But most of them are of you.

Very few are flattering; mostly they’re blurred snapshots of you mid-complaint, or bent over Monopoly, or trying to pile up as many dishes in the sink as possible before you have to wash them. A few are of you just getting back from the shops, usually laden with plastic bags and already annoyed. In one you’re grinning wildly at the camera, freshly returned from the Chinese restaurant down the street. Your cheeks are flushed, bags of food raised high in victory. A receipt is frozen mid-fall, just inches from the gray slush coating your boots.

And there are some that he must have taken when you weren’t looking. Ones where you’re reading, curled up next to the radiator with a thousand blankets because _yes_ , you’re always that cold. Where you’re mid-pancake-flip, so focused it’s almost embarrassing. Of you peeking out the curtains to spy on the neighbor’s friends, like the old days when you spied on the courtyard, the morning sun hot on your face.

(Arthur’s kept them all, though. Every single horrible, unflattering one. Like he’s making up for lost time.)

Even though these are stills of _you,_ a hot spike of guilt rushes up your spine. You begin to gather the fallen pictures together and stack them on your knees. These photographs feel somehow private, intimate, like a reminder of someone important that you’ve gone and forgotten. Someone you _should_ remember.

You jump at the sound of Arthur’s voice.

“Those are _mine_ ,” he calls, simultaneously commanding and utterly petulant. “Give them back.”

You only have a moment to brace yourself before he tackles you.

•

In the summer, you sit on the roof just outside your bedroom, and watch the sun set. Arthur joins you as soon as he figures out where you go in the evenings, claiming boredom and the lack of air conditioning and _why can’t you just use your magic to cool this place, Merlin, not just_ your _room?_

(The answer is: you’re too lazy. But Arthur doesn’t have to know that.) 

This night is no different. Arthur clambers through the window and settles down beside you. His boots slip on the roofing tiles, and he almost drops his beer. Arthur _loves_ beer now, keeps the bottle caps in a jar, and you wonder, not for the first time, if he’s aware of how _average_ he is. 

“Did you get me one?” You ask, and Arthur wrinkles his nose.

“Why would I get my servant a drink?”

“Servants don’t exist anymore, Arthur. Besides,” you gesture broadly, “this is _my_ flat.”

“It is _not_.”

“It is! My name’s on the lease, you idiot.”

“As if. You were just holding my place.” Arthur jostles your shoulder, and you yelp, and he laughs, and then you both go still. The heat of the day is finally bleeding into cool blues, save the streaks of pink crisscrossing the sky. The whole effect is quite beautiful, even if it _is_ caused by pollution, and it’s stunning enough to leave even Arthur speechless.

It’s nice. Like old times. If you close your eyes, you could be leaning out a castle window, feeling the breeze on your throat and listening for the knights riding back from evening patrol. Gwaine always checks the eastern turrets to make sure you’re watching, and in a moment he’ll lift a gloved hand and wave cheerily to you... 

(Like old times.)

“How long have you waited?” Arthur asks, eventually. He stares pointedly ahead. Refuses to look at you.

“I dunno,” you say with a shrug. “I’ve lost track of time.”

A pause. A mourning dove coos somewhere off to your right. Arthur takes a deep breath, sets the beer down between you. 

“It … it must have been lonely,” he says haltingly.

And you really weren’t expecting _that_ to come out of his mouth _,_ of all things. Sudden tears prick at your eyes, sharp and unwelcome. 

“Ah,” you say thickly, your throat suddenly constricted. “You get used to it.”

“You _waited_ for me,” Arthur barrels on. It’s as if he’s _determined_ to talk about this, here and now, where you can’t easily scramble away.

“Well. You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

It’s a joke, but it isn’t really, and now Arthur is looking at you like you’re the sun, brow furrowed and lips pursed. It’s like he’s never left at all; like you’re in the woods together, on some godforsaken hunting trip, and you’re about to stamp the fire out except he looks _so lovely_ in this light.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Your heart catches in your chest. Arthur doesn’t _say_ thank you; he doesn’t leave that space open, not ever. And now he’s watching you, hesitant and almost _nervous_ , if you had to name it. You open your mouth to respond in kind, say _you’re welcome_ or _never thought I’d hear you say that one again, you arse,_ or something, _anything_ -but no words come out.

(What is there to say that hasn’t already been said, anyways?)

“Bring me a beer next time,” you say instead, and clamber to your feet. “You owe me.”

You crawl back through the window and leave him to his sunset.

•

One day you think you’ve lost him, except he’s just gone round the corner for a pint. But you don’t know that, yet. All you know, when you stagger through the doorway with your arms overflowing with bags, is that the lights are off and Arthur is nowhere to be found _._ And it’s all your fault.

You break all over again. You don’t remember how you get to the kitchen, if you even close the door behind you. Every bone in your body is on fire, screaming _don’t leave me Arthur, please, not again._ The way the world spins, how the tile rushes up to meet you, is deeply unnerving and yet sickeningly familiar; they call it ptsd, now, but right now all you can think is _he’s gone, he’s gone again and I can’t protect him, I’ve failed I’ve failed I’ve failed I’ve-_

You don’t remember how it all falls apart, and you don’t remember how it comes back together. You just sense that Arthur is by your side, although you don’t know when, yelling in shock and fear. And then he’s on his knees, pulling you in, and he’s saying things you can barely make out, the fog in your brain is so heavy.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s all right-”

Arthur hugs you, as tight as the day you lost him. There’s no trace of the awkward dance you’ve done since Arthur returned; the almost hugs, offhanded pats. This time he holds you like you’re fading.

He sits with you in the middle of the kitchen, rubs your back, murmurs things you won’t remember into your ear.

“I’m here,” he hums against your cheek. “I won’t leave you.”

He leans into you, so that your foreheads are touching; and you’re reminded, all at once, of the last time you held Arthur this close. He must be reminded too, or maybe he feels you stiffen in his grasp. Either way, he only hesitates another moment before he nudges your chin up and kisses you, almost desperately, pleading. One hand in your hair, the other at the small of your back, and it should feel like the whole world is exploding and sparking because _this is all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it_?

But your face is slippery wet with tears, so all you can do is sob, just a bit, into his mouth. Arthur doesn’t pull away.

“It’s all right,” he says fiercely. His fingers are at your jaw, pressing inward, like he’s afraid you’ll disintegrate if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. “It’s all right.”

And you kiss him, again and again, because what else can you do?

•

When he finally crawls into your bed, just before the dawn, it’s like your body was built to hold his. To cradle him, this fearless king of a lost land; for so long, you’ve believed he would return to save you, and here he is, all elbows and hesitation. Nose tucked gently to the back of your neck. Soft breath pooling at your hairline, warm and shallow and real. He’s not shaking, exactly, but who are you to say?

You can’t help but smile when his arms slip underneath yours, just at your waist; he thinks you’re asleep, and you have no intention of proving otherwise. Deep breaths, Merlin. When he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, chapped lips soft on your skin: deep breaths.

You lay limp in his arms for a while, mirroring his exhales; and you’re drifting off to sleep again, in spite of yourself, when you hear him stir, press a soft kiss to the shell of your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers haltingly. “I didn’t mean to make you wait so long.”

There’s that hitch in his throat, matching yours. Two sides of the same coin, the dragon said. Destinies intertwined, and all that.

It feels so much more real, now. Like finally, some missing piece has slotted into place. The Old Religion hums through you, but now the sound is gentle, relieved. Finally. After everything, you note vaguely, after all this time, your destiny has come home to you.

“You’re here now,” you say eventually. Because what else could you say to something like that? “You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

And it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> small disclaimer: while i am a big discworld fan, i would not _personally_ recommend the color of magic as your entry point to the series. Merlin, unfortunately, didn't have a choice in that regard.
> 
> thank you so much for reading! xoxo
> 
> feel free to come say hi on [tumblr](https://vintagedowl.tumblr.com/) !


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